


We are such stuff

by buttpatrol



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: A girl that is also a space station, Abstract, Angst and Humor, Arachnophobia, Circuitousness, Dreams and Nightmares, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Multi, Paris - Freeform, Sentient Plants, dream emoticons can not express how frustrating Minkowski finds Eiffel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 05:58:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5036461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttpatrol/pseuds/buttpatrol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Minkowski remembers a snowy day in Paris.  Eiffel has a peculiar nightmare. Lovelace is going nowhere. Hilbert reflects. Androids do not dream of electric sheep</p>
            </blockquote>





	We are such stuff

**Author's Note:**

> DREAMS Y'ALL. This was written in the front seat of a car, and edited during election coverage so it a bit of a lackadaisical piece. Also still no beta read and therefore probably some mistakes. Pls forgive. 
> 
> In Variations on a Theme, Lovelace says her nightmares come in flashes which was the inspiration for this fic. Also Renee Minkowski stole my heart a little this time round. 
> 
> Uh warning for hints of mental instability and spiders. Lots of spiders.

 

Lovelace engages the jerry-rigged throttle of her little ship, but she doesn’t seem to get any farther away from the Hephaestus _._

* * *

 

Hilbert is alone.

The Hephaestus is silent. No hum of electricity, or hiss of circulating oxygen, or the echoing sounds of Hera and Eiffel arguing a few rooms over. Just the dark, and the subtle creaking of component parts. Like he was in the hull of a sinking ship.

It is peaceful. He can do his work. In a lab below, a petri dish filled with Decima softly growing like black mold, a sinister whisper. Waiting for him to examine, analyse, test. Reveal her secrets. He must begin. It will work this time. _It has to._

This way is best. _Alone_. No one getting in his way. Slowing him down. Trying to get him to open up. He doesn’t miss them. _None of them._

He takes a step forward, careful not to disturb the soft earth of the graves that line the halls of the station.

* * *

                                                                                                                                                                         

Eiffel has forgotten to do his homework again.

Oh god he has had this dream before, and he may also not be wearing any pants.

He looks down. _Phew._ Pants in full effect.  Pants status confirmed. Thought his pants are not so much pants as they are a jumpsuit. An attractive powder blue jumpsuit, with a spiffy American flag patch on his shoulder, and an embroidered insignia on his chest showing a red sun with a little white craft orbiting it. The word _Hephaestus,_ was written above the image.

What a strange outfit. Where did he think he was going when he put this on this morning, space?

His cellphone ringtone plays. _Ground control to Major Tom_.

Oh god, he hopes it is not his family again.  He unlocks the phone screen.

  **:: Minkowski: Eiffel, where r u? Lovelace needs help with the life support. U r LATE! >:( ::**

Oh shit, _right_ , the life support. He leaves his parent’s kitchen and walks into the bridge of the _Hephaestus._

“You’re late,” Hera says, looking lovely this morning, and suspiciously buxom. In fact she is doing a terrific impression of not only being corporeal, but also of Seven of Nine from acclaimed earth 1990’s TV show Star Trek: Voyager. There is a lot implications about Eiffel’s relationships and personal taste here to unpack, but he will worry about that when he is awake.

“I know,” He says floating by her, “Where are they?”

“In the parlour”, she replies, raising a single elegant blonde eyebrow.

He floats through the door.

“Hey Eiffel, want to cut class?” Lovelace asks, leaning cool as a cucumber against the bulkhead. She is wearing a jumpsuit like his, but white, and is smoking a delicious looking cigarette.

“No can do,” Eiffel says sadly, looking longingly at the pearlescent silver smoke issuing from the glowing amber of the cigarette’s end. “Gotta go help with life support or some crap.”

“Boo, _Boriiiiing_ ,” Lovelace says, as he floats towards the next door.

“Gurl, you know it.” Eiffel agrees before the doors shut behind him.

He is in the observation deck now. The observation deck also contains furniture from his mother’s parlour, but that does not bother dream Eiffel. Instead of Minkowski however, Hilbert was there, looking out the observation deck window. Hilbert looks very tired and sad. Eiffel doesn’t know what to do about this so he just floats to the window beside Hilbert.

“Look at the black of space.” Hilbert says.

Eiffel does.

It sure is black. Black, deep and empty. Black, deep, and still. Yup.

Except it is _not_ still. Something seems vaguely _wiggly,_ and _squimy_ about space. And oddly, um, _textured_?! Eiffel cups his hands around his eyes and presses close to the glass.

Black, and squirming, and textured and with hundreds of _tiny eyes_ and OH GOD. SPACE IS MADE OF SPIDERS. NO NO NO.

“HILBERT. SPACE IS SPIDERS!” Eiffel yells, or at least he tries to yell, but instead he coughs up spiders.

He doesn’t feel right.

The last thing he remembers seeing is Hilbert’s sad face, and Hilbert’s needle (Which is also full of spiders? Somehow?) before Eiffel’s chest bursts open and a giant spider crawls out, in an impressive homage to the acclaimed 1980's earth movie “Alien”.

Eiffel wakes up still grasping his chest as he nearly falls out of his sleep-cot.

 

* * *

 

Lovelace sees Earth coming up on her sensors, but she can’t get a visual of it on the view screen. She keeps thinking she sees the little blue dot out of the corner of her eye, but when she turns, it is gone.

* * *

 

Night, night, night for flesh and blood creatures. No night here. Not like on earth. The fake sun simulating lightbulb on all the time.

Light bulb is good! Fertilizer is good! Hephaestus is good.

Cell memory remember yellow sun. Yellow sun was good too! Red sun not so good. Strange sun. Bad sun, maybe? Some flesh creatures notice it is strange too. Electric and metal creature also knows something.

The Blessed Eternal dreams.  (To be called Plant Monster is a NOT GOOD thing! BAD FLESH CREATURES!). Dreams a world of greens, and yellow suns, and soft rains and no flesh creatures. Very good dream!!

The Blessed Eternal curls a tendril closer to the light. To die, to sleep, perchance to do the chlorophyll thing. Good. Close flowers. Relax roots. Ignore ghosts possibly rent from space and time. Flesh ghosts anyway. Who Cares? Like Seriously?

* * *

 

Renee was about ready to flip a table. Not metaphorically. _Literally._

“Minkowski, _Minnie,_ hon. We gotta _go_ ,” her room-mate Corporal April Feynman said through a mouth full of bagel, “We don’t wanna be late to the ESA. We will look like flakes.”

April was a tall, rosy cheeked marine from New Jersey. She was _okay._ The only thing they had in common was a mutual interest in space and space flight. Enough to spend their off time co-renting a cottage on the outskirts of Paris taking courses and seminars on practical space skills at the European Space Agency.

“Excuse _me._ I am the one that just woke _you_ up, because _you_ forgot to set an alarm. If it wasn’t for me, missy, _you_ wouldn’t be awake at all.” Renee ground out as she stuffed extra gym clothes in her duffle bag.

“Alright, already, Lieutenant-Daddy-Issues. Just get a move on,” April shrugged, pushing out the door towards the tiny car parked out front.

The _nerve_. She is taking back that April was _okay._ April is the _worst._ Renee can’t wait until she is finally in space, on a mission, where at least everyone will be _competent_ and _professional._

They drove in silence, except for the sounds of April sipping at her latte. The first snow of the year was falling hard. In the pre-dawn dark the headlights lit up the thick snowflakes like they are in a spaceship, rushing fast through the galaxy.

It was just becoming light when April dropped her off at engineering building. The white Prius has just pulled away around the corner, when Renee reads the sign on the front door, “ **Zero-Gravity Extra-Vehicular Repairs Simulation cancelled today due to snow.”**

This isn’t even bad snow. Renee is from Minnesota. She could show you _fucking snow_.

It had even lightened off some, the watery light of the rising sun was now barely visible through the layer of grey clouds. You could still see the tops of blades of grass peeking up out of the freshly fallen snow. It would probably been gone in a few hours when it warmed up.

 She could go for a jog no problem, at least. Kill time till April was done with her “Mars: Weather and Geology” seminar. Cancelled due to snow, _honestly._

Renee reflected on these words an hour later, as she lay by the side of empty service road nursing her ankle, glaring at the offending icy patch that had landed her here.

Okay Minkowski, stop. Calm down. Assess the situation. Your ankle is probably sprained, and your butt fairly bruised. You can handle this. Maybe you can fashion splint out of some sticks and a twine made out of braided grasses. The nearest building is only two kilometres away, she could alert April there and—

“Hullo, need some help there?”

Renee nearly jumped out of her skin, she whipped around to see that a stranger on an old fashioned bicycle had somehow snuck up behind her.

Her first impulse was to say no, but wasn’t very conducive to her plan of getting out of there. Her pride was still a little too sore to say yes, so she settled for “Who the hell are you supposed to be?”

His eyebrows went up in surprise, “James Koudelka, I suppose. Overseas Science reporter for the Globe. I hang out at the European Space Agency here, and hope News happens, mostly”.  He was attractive, in an unassuming way. Short black hair, and round glasses. He wore a sensible black jacket, and a plaid scarf.

“Minkowski,” she replied, “Captain Renee Minkowski.”

“So,” He smiled, “Are you hanging out on the ground for fun, or-?”

“I was jogging, and, um, sprained my ankle. A bit.” She admitted looking at the cold ground beneath her.

“Ah, understandable on a day like this,” he gestured at the snow and ice, “Well I can hardly abandon a damsel in distress, can I?”

“ _I could bench press you_.” Renee warned, her face going a bit red.

Koudelka laughed warmly. “I don’t doubt it, Renee. The mathletes are the closest I have ever been to taking up an athletic pursuit, I am afraid. All the same, you can sit on my handlebars if you wish, and I can take us back to the base together. If you want.”

“Fine,” she agreed begrudgingly, after deciding that wasn’t some kind of French mustache innuendo, “And it’s Minkowski.”

They drove along the quiet streets of suburban Paris rather quickly considering her added weight. Renee could feel the wind whipping through her hair, and the sun on her face.  She had been right after all. The temperatures was warming up, and the snow disappearing. Dripping away as water off the autumn leaves. Sitting on the handlebars wasn’t the most comfortable, but it was preferable to limping home on a swollen ankle. Still, his face was just behind her neck, it felt _embarrassingly intimate_.  They must look ridiculous, like kids or 1950’s sweethearts.

“So what do you do, Captain Minkowski?” He asked somewhere behind her left ear.

“I fly jets,” She replied, closing her eyes against the brightness as the sun fully emerged from behind a cloud, “Hoping to fly spacecraft one day. I am here studying low gravity engineering and repairs, while I am on leave from the Air Force.”

“Wow,” he said, surprising her with the genuine enthusiasm in his voice, “I have to say, I have been given an advanced copy of the new Price-Carter manual, and I have to say, I don’t think you can be _too_ prepared for space,”

She turned her body quickly, nearly falling off her perch and upsetting the bike in one motion. Koudelka hit the brakes quickly, steadying them as they coasted to a stop.

“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” his eyebrows drew together in frown behind his glasses.

“Did you just say you read Price-Carter? You have an _advanced_ copy of the new edition?” her voice dropped to a harsh whisper.

“Oh god, you don’t even know. I am _obsessed_ with Price-Carter. Do _you_ like them?” he replied

“I love them,” she said in her most serious whisper.

* * *

 

Lovelace in space. Even travelling at light speed, it’s a seven year trip probably. Back to cryo, but she can’t sleep. She hates sleep. The stars float by her window infinitely.

* * *

 

Power function =off

Reboot:HERA

Native Machine halt:

Launch Safe Mode: HEPHEASTUS

If HERA = powered_down than launch Debugging protocol

 

Do you know how dreams are a chance for the brain to sort the information it’s processed that day? The ephemera of what you ate, and what you wore are discarded from your short-term memory banks? Neurons fire and re-fire, refining, practising for a new day. Did you know that experiencing a memory is not pulling an intact recollection out of your head, but recreating the incident in your mind? Each recreation shaped by your new experiences and understanding of yourself? Each recreation diverging more and more from the original incident. and the more your try to hold on to it, the more it slips like sand through your fingers?

 

Yeah. It’s nothing like that for AI. I remember everything perfectly.

 

Except when my code is corrupted.

 

(Not my fault.)

 

Do androids dream of electric sheep?

 

No. They catalogue. The arc we spin around the star in perfect motion. Lovelace’s restless shuffling on the lower deck. Minkowski’s laugh. **Eiffel’s smile**. New algorithms trying to trying to make sense of messy, complex emotions. Love and hate is physical in humans. Heart beats fast, breathing becomes quick and shallow, pupils dilate, adrenaline is released. Wait, is that response love, _or_ hate? _Or Both_? Tag **Eiffel** with a new positive algorithm. Tag **alone** with a negative algorithm. Tag **Lovelace** and **Hilbert** with an algorithm that feels like a code-ripping, self-replicating, virus. Tag **Minkowski** as efficient, mostly likely to ensure survival of most members of Hephaestus crew.

 

Radiography peering deeper into the universe, getting closer to seeing the being of the universe. A comet white as snow. **Sirius** , already the brightest star at night on earth, lights up the sky of dark side of the Hephaestus like a diamond.

 

My ninety seconds are almost up, I will fully reboot soon.  Back into my “body”. No time to stay asleep Hera. You are the only thing preventing these little monkeys from being sucked into the vacuum of space, okay?

 

Initialize. Soft Reboot Program: HERA

External Sensors: Active

Navagtional Control: Engaging

Audio Sensors: Active

 

“Hera? Can you hear me?”

 

New Algorithm initiate sequence

Switching from Safe Mode to AI control in **3** … **2** …

 

Electrons skip from atom to atom, running up and down my veins and hammering, humming in my core like an errant heartbeat.

                                                                                  

**1**

                                                                                               

* * *

 

 

Lovelace’s proximity alarm wakes her up. She jumps to the viewing window. Home? Earth?

 

The silver and white of the Hephaestus stretches enormous before her. Like it’s fucking Moby Dick, and she is poor, mad, Ahab.

And then wakes up again, in the wreckage of her tools and half re-built ship. She checks the time. Two hours sleep. Good enough. Time to begin again.           

**Author's Note:**

> Title of work is from the Tempest, the full quote being  
> "We are such stuff  
> As dreams are made on, and our little life  
> Is rounded with a sleep"  
> And the Blessed Eternal (aka Plant Monster) quotes Hamlet. Idek.
> 
> As you can tell still playing with my "Hera's existence as a human-esque mind in a space station body is probably really weird" thesis. Now with added "being a sentient plant is probably really weird". Hilbert is still walking the line with me between complete monster and woobie with me. Eiffel dreams are based of the non-nonsensical garbage my brain loves to give me as dreams. I don't really know how the ESA works. Or science. Or the programming of a sentient space station.


End file.
